His Better Half
by NotWhoYouThinkThisIs
Summary: She's at the funeral. She's at the shop. And somehow, George just can't seem to stop himself from falling in love with her. Crap. George and Angelina... and the memory of Fred always in the background.


**Authors' Note:**

**Tequila:** warning!!! unrepentant sap!!!

**Justin:** Yeah. She's not kidding. --gags slightly--

**Tequila:** psssh. you know you love it, justin :D

**Justin:** Suuuure… --rolls eyes--

**Disclaimer:** haha, haha, hahaha. We don't own. At all.

His Better Half

She was at the funeral, of course. At the big one, the one held on the grounds of Hogwarts—she had fought, after all. Had apparently received a rather nasty burn all down her arm. Not that George had noticed—not then. He was busy mourning.

She came to the other funeral, too. The smaller one, the one where the officiate talked about _Fred_, not some nameless, faceless member of a "brave, selfless group who sacrificed themselves for the good of the entire Wizarding world." Fred would have laughed so hard if he heard that.

George didn't talk to her. He didn't talk to anyone. He didn't make a speech. He didn't do _anything_. Not then, not for a while afterwards. He didn't talk to her, but he did see her, crying silently by the side of the grave, her arm wrapped in bandages. She looked sad. He was almost happy—happy that someone else was sad.

Did that make him a horrible person? Or did you get some kind of mulligan, a one time free pass for being an unqualified berk right after your twin brother dies and then back to normal, back to happy, cheerful, funny George. He almost laughed—oh, Merlin, what kind of sick freak was he to be almost laughing at Fred's _funeral_?

Oh, _God_, it felt so weird to be thinking of himself as George, not Fred&George. He _was_ Fred&George, dammit. He… he wasn't… George on his own wasn't…

This was… this was absolutely and totally crap.

* * *

She was in the shop, once he finally dragged himself there again. A month or two wasn't so bad, he told himself. Ron had kept the store running, Verity had been there—this was okay. He was okay.

And then he saw her, hand braced on her hip, the way it always was, staring at a display with her mouth pursed. She looked up, just then, and saw him. "Hey! George," she flung a careless arm out to the heap of boxes, "do you mind if I change this? It's all wrong."

He blinked. "All… wrong?"

"Yeah. Skiving Snackboxes should be in the back—you've had those for ages. Put some of the new potions in the front, and since you've got mostly reds and yellows, kind of—" she narrowed her eyes and waved her wand, and the boxes floated about for a while and then resettled. He had to admit… it looked good. "See? Better."

"Better."

"Mmhmm."

George swallowed. "Sorry. But… what are you doing here?"

"I'm picking up some stuff—I've been hanging out a lot… ask Verity. She's a sweet girl."

"Yes."

"Like I said, I've been… around. I'm working part time at Eeylops, still training, you know. I'm hoping to get picked up by the Magpies once the season starts again… so I've been in the neighborhood, and, well," she grinned, a bit lopsidedly, but who was George to be judging, nowadays? "you two always had the best store-fronts, didn't you?"

* * *

It started small, with her coming over and them drinking coffee and her asking about the latest stuff. It started with little smiles that she smiled when no one was looking, and the way the light caught her skin and warmed it into cocoa and mahogany, and the fact that she was always more willing to break the rules when there was a chance she _would _get caught. And then, before he even realized it, it was too late.

Did you get in a _lot _of trouble for falling in love with your dead twin brother's ex-girlfriend?

Probably.

Shite.

* * *

It was a Wednesday, when he asked her. There wasn't a huge fuss—nothing really noticeable, anyway. Except to them. He asked her if she wanted to run out and grab something to eat, maybe at Florean's, but they both knew. This was different. This was… maybe, possibly, if she didn't mind, if he didn't flip out, a… date.

She said yes. And then she said yes to dinner on Saturday, and to dinner again on Thursday, and to coming up to his flat after dinner on Monday, and then, when he kissed her gently, she kissed back. And then he was lost. So completely, utterly, totally lost, because her lips were soft and warm and gentle, and it wasn't until about an hour after she'd Apparated home that he realized that Fred had kissed those lips too and George ran into the bathroom and almost threw up.

But then there she was again, bright and early on Tuesday morning and she was smiling and _Merlin_, what was a bloke supposed to do?

* * *

And then, kind of without him really noticing it, a month had become three and his brothers started teasing him again and autumn was sliding into winter and then melting into spring and they were—somehow, some way—still going for coffee and coming back to his flat or her flat and kissing and doing a bit more than kissing and teasing and laughing and calling and fighting. And everything seemed a little bit too good to be true.

And it was. Because there was pressure building, under the surface, and it came out in the little ways that he grew angry too quickly, and screamed a little too loud, and waited too long to forgive her for what was nothing, really. Because it _pushed_ at him, always pushing, pushing, pushing.

"Look, George—"

"That's right, _George_, okay? Wrong twin, right? Fine?"

"Lord, you're being so _obtuse_, Fr—"

"I AM NOT FRED!"

She blinked, shock widening her eyes. "I never said you were. Lord, how could I _ever_ confuse the two of you?"

George's mouth twisted in a bitter parody of a smile. "Right. Of course."

"No. I'm serious. You are, and you always were, completely different people. Yeah, practically joined at the hip, but different people."

"Di-di-different people?"

She leaned down, and gripped his arm hard. "George. You and Fred were both amazing guys, but he's _gone_. And that sucks, but you're not, and you're funny and witty and a nice guy too."

"But—but—you don't understand because I'm _not,_ I can't be—he was always—I was just—no. No. No. Look. Fred&George. _Fred comes first!_"

"George, dammit, you need to stop this! You have all kinds of—"

"_You're only with me because I remind you of him!_" He gasped. He'd said it. He'd actually said it. Out loud. Shite. His breathing sped up… he blinked rapidly, he couldn't look, wouldn't look—oh, Merlin, oh, oh—

"George Weasley you complete and utter _berk_." That snapped his head up. She was glaring at him, but her eyes were soft. "Is that what—oh, Lord. You are completely moronic. Of course I'm not dating you because you look like him! I was…" she blushed, this time, "actually, if anything, I dated him because you never asked me."

"Huh?"

"In sixth year… he asked me to the Yule Ball. So I said yes. We dated for a while… we broke up. It wasn't ever some kind of eternal love, and we both knew that… and he knew I rather fancied you… Merlin, George, sometimes you can be _such_ an idiot."

"Yeah… yeah, I can, can't I?" He was smiling. How was he smiling? But he was smiling anyway.

* * *

So spring turned into summer and she stood next to him at the one year memorial service and they cried together, and then… she was standing next to him at the two year service, and the three year service, and they were still laughing and fighting and teasing and kissing—quite a bit more than kissing, to tell the truth—and sometimes he needed to just sit down and cry for a while, but she understood that. And the years slid past and she moved in and, without really realizing that he was doing it, George found himself starting to check out rings when he passed jewelry shops…

When he proposed, she was so surprised she dropped the dish she had been washing and it shattered all over the floor, but it didn't really matter because she said _yes_, she said _yes,_ she said _yes._

* * *

The wedding was nice—everyone there and fireworks and mum crying all over everything—and the honeymoon was even nicer. In fact, with her, a lot of things were nice. Not that they didn't fight, and blow things up, and get into trouble… but that was nice too. And then, one day, rather out of the blue… she was pregnant.

She looked up at him, and grinned. "How about… Fred? If it's a boy?"

George paused, holding his breath for a long moment. "Yeah. Yes. I think so."

She reached up and grasped his hand tightly. "Love you."

"Love you too." Then he smiled, and this was a smile without shadows in it. "If it's a girl… how about Angelina?"

"Hell, no!"

* * *

And when the baby came, and he was tiny and precious and wonderful and terrifying and called Fred, and they brought him home and woke up the next morning and there he was, still, tiny and gurgling and _there,_ there was a moment of silence. Of rapture. Of something that might have been Healing.

And then the little tyke threw up all over both of them.

And George knew… somehow, some way, call him crazy, call him nutters… that somewhere… Fred was laughing his _arse_ off.

**A/N, the other twin:**

**Tequila:** --dreamy eyes--

**Justin:** --sighs--


End file.
